


Choosing

by miss_nettles_wife



Series: Whumptober 2019 [22]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Period Typical Homophobia, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Whumptober day 23: beatenJean is a serial killer but played for serious.





	Choosing

**Author's Note:**

> I won't pretend that this one is especially good. But come on, who hasn't wanted to play with the idea of Jean being the killer?

“Oh, Charlie. I’m always glad to see the man who beat me.”

In her large teal shirt, it was almost impossible to remember the finely dressed woman she used to be.

“I wish I could say the feeling was mutual.” He replied, and tugged the seat out at the desk and lowered himself into it.

“Is your knee bothering you again?” The fact that she still sounds like the old Jean is hard to reckon with. Her concern was palpable, and sometimes he wondered if it was real. He knew it wasn’t; but sometimes, for just a few half-hearted seconds he could almost pretend.

“On and off.” He chose to answer vaguely, if he could he would have ignored the question altogether but he knew better now. If he wanted a hope in hell of getting an answer was to stay in her good books. He didn’t want to, but in life there are times where you just have to suck it up and do them.

Arresting your mother figure, for example. He hadn’t exactly been dreaming about doing that but he didn’t have a choice in the matter, no matter what Matthew tried to say.

“Ask them to bring you another chair and you can put it up, I’m not fancy.” Jean smiled at him, and took a hold of his hand in both of her cuffed ones.

“I won’t be here long enough.”

“If you’re sure. How is everyone? Do you keep in touch?”

The little grey room they were in didn’t have any windows, just a pane in the door that he’d have to knock on too get out.

“Everyone is fine.” He said, “You could see them yourself if you let anyone aside from Rose and I onto your visitors' list.”

“Rose is writing my life story.” Jean said, dreamily, “A farmer's daughter, to Ballarat’s most famous black widow.”

“So I’ve heard.” He and Rose didn’t talk so much anymore. He didn’t hold any resentment towards her, they’d just drifted apart after she got married. That happened sometimes, or so he’d led to believe.

“She said she wanted an interview with the man who beat me.”

“She did offer.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her sure if she’s prepared to give me a million dollars.”

“Not one for interviews?”

“Something like that.”

Jean shifted in her seat, and then put her arms into her lap. He didn’t doubt she was looking for a way to escape. She was the smartest woman in the room, and he’d be surprised if there was a moment she was ever not looking for a way out of her life sentence. He also was not surprised to know that she basically ran her block inside the prison. Poor women.

“And how is Matthew? Still campaigning for my innocence?”

And there it was, slicing through him like a knife. She knew how he felt about Matthew; he’d made the mistake of confiding in her on the outside. He’d gone to her for a listening ear, hoping to find the condemnation he wanted or the confirmation of acceptance that he craved more than anything. She’d given the second, and he’d unwillingly given her ammo to use against him.

“We don’t really speak anymore.” He replied, “But no, he stopped that at Rose’s request.” She nodded wisely, and smiled again.

“Have you thought about it?”

“I think about it all the time, we still work together.”

“Is he still going to give you his station?”

“Of course he is,” Charlie replied, but was careful to keep his voice calm. He knew full well that even if Matthew despised him on a personal level, on a professional level he respected him as a copper.

“Hm.” She replied, thoughtfully, “If your ability to arrest your friends is anything to go by; you’ll make a fine Superintendent.”

“Maybe.”

“How are my sons?”

“Jack sold all of your silverware.” Her expression said clearly that she wasn’t surprised.

“And Christoper?”

“He’s in the army. We don’t speak.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry I don’t make a habit of communicating with the people whose mothers I arrest.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Don’t count on it.” Jean snorted, and Charlie fought the urge to cross one leg over the other. He knew that it would just hurt his knee more. He wondered if this was how Matthew felt sometimes, with his leg. He wondered a lot about Matthew since his divorce from Doctor Harvey, the last time they spoke for any length. Doctor Harvey was the smart one, taking off away from this cursed place. He wondered what it was like to live at Mycroft Street now. He thought about Danny, briefly, but didn’t linger. He didn’t feel like breaking his heart tonight.

“But I’m sure you’re not here to talk about this. Why are you here, Charlie?”

“Same reason I always come. I want to know what you did with the doctor body.”

“Well, my answer is the same as always. If you’re so smart, find it yourself.”

“If I could find it myself I would have found it by now.” He deadpanned, “I just want to give him a proper burial.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do. Because you’re just so noble.”

“It has nothing to do with that. He’s my friend.”

“A friend you left behind for Melbourne.” Even now, she knew exactly where to aim, exactly where to find the chinks in his armor.

“If I remember correctly, he was one of the people encouraging me to go.”

“To your fancy detective school. If I’d have known, I’d never have let you back in the house.”

“Surely you didn’t expect to get away with it.” He said, “Matthew would have figured it out eventually.”

“Until you came back, I was. Tell me, what did I stuff up? How did I drop the ball?”

“You know how I did it.”   
“I want to hear it again.”

“I don’t think you did drop the ball. I just happened to be able to lift my Jean coloured glasses long enough to find the cracks in your story. Witnesses who couldn’t be re-interviewed, you being in the wrong place at the right time, the fact that not even a trace of him could be found...It all painted an unfortunate painting.”

“Unfortunate. Maybe that’s how you see it.”

“How do you see losing your husband?”

“I see it as me choosing when he widowed me.”

“Choosing.”

“He would have done it eventually. I thought he would change. I was a fool.”

“Wasn’t it you who used to espouse that you should love someone without trying to change them? That you knew what you were walking into with him?”

“No one means that.” She replied, “It’s something everyone says but no one means. We all think that we can change people. Save them from themselves. I loved him. Maybe I loved him too much.”

“I know he wasn’t your first, so don’t try that shit on me. Might work on Rose, but I know you, Jean. The real you.”

“You don’t have the first clue of how it feels to be widowed.” She told him, “I lost my husband once, the second time, it was my choice. I made the decision.”

“You did. Funny. I used to be so angry I could barely function but now? Now I’m making the decision to spend the lovely day that it is in the park. Might take my Goddaughter to get ice cream after school. Might go see a film tonight. Maybe I’ll do it again tomorrow. But you’ll still be right here until the next time I want to see you. How’s that for choosing?”

And then, he left, knowing fully well that he’d be back next month.


End file.
